Best Dad

Sci-Fi Horror

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I’ve taken a short detour into writing horror. I had fun creating this. Next week will see a return to fiction in the Deupawn universe.

Best Dad

Dear diary,

I’m writing to you because I need a concrete reminder of what’s at stake. This will help keep me honest, I hope. I’m a good man. I’m definitely not a murderer.

I’ve just married my soulmate. We’re about to have our first child. It’s a girl. We’re still tossing baby names around, but both of us like Willow.

I may write for the Herald but I’m struggling to stay on topic. It’s a good thing I’m the only person who will ever read this. Here I go:

I’m not a murderer. But I’ve caused the deaths of a few dozen people. The first one I remember is Uncle Larry.

I was a child. Three years old, maybe four – it’s hard to say. My family doesn’t like talking about it and most of the details are gleaned from tidbits shared at dinner tables over the years. I didn’t understand what happened at the time - wouldn’t understand for a long time.

Poor, poor Larry. His heart just gave out. I came out of the men’s restroom crying, tripping over buttoned pants I was too little to know how to fasten. I didn’t understand why he fell and made that loud noise.

I never said what happened in there to anyone, but mom knew. Horrified I had been alone somewhere with him, brother or not, she almost seemed glad his heart had given out. I remember how she didn’t weep at his funeral.

Larry wasn’t the first. I’m not talking about abusers, no, I mean people who die because of me. There had been others before Larry. I don’t know how they all met that end, other than they were not anywhere near death until they got unlucky. They met me when I didn’t know any better.

It’s taking me a while to get to the point, I know. I’m only writing it to myself in a diary no one else can ever read. I should just get on with it.

When I think bad thoughts about a person, they die. Their heart just stops beating. It seems like their brain shuts down, too. It’s not like I make one tiny mental slip and they disappear – it’s not so instant. The rate at which they perish seems to match the intensity of my negative feelings. With discipline, I can halt the impact of a bad thought, and the person will be just fine. One skip of a heartbeat and a brief greying of their vision, then they’re all better.

Uncle Larry died pretty quick. Larry was not a healthy man. A smoker, a drinker, an eater. No one was shocked at his sudden passing. To me, at the age of 4, his stink gum rot and cigarette breath made me more upset than where his hands had roamed.

I was a good boy. I was raised right. I’d never hurt a flea. I was more than just a good boy; I was the kind of kid who felt sorry for a snail baking in the sun – I’d move the slimy little guy to the shade, somewhere nice and wet. This angered my dad, who was trying to protect mom’s garden, but mom thought it was cute. She encouraged it.

You would think that would mean I couldn’t cause anything bad to happen. You’d be wrong.

When you’re only nine years old you don’t understand what a real person is. Take a teacher, for example. When you’re nine, your teacher is some guy or gal who is a fixture at your school – a talking, walking, beloved piece of the elementary geography. As far as you know, once class is over, that teacher disappears into a drawer somewhere just like the pencils and the crayons. They come back out of the drawer when you’re dropped off at school the next day, smiling and waiting just for you to begin class. It’s super weird to see your teacher at the grocery store when you’re nine. The sense of dislocation and wrongness can be quite intense.

No, none of my teachers have died. It’s just an example. Here’s another example: your parents talk about a politician like they’re a murderer, a terrorist, a traitor to your country. You can’t help but have bad thoughts about them. You don’t see that political figure as a real person. Your parents probably don’t mean what they say; politics brings out some pretty vile hyperbole. But when you’re nine, that language creates a monstrous image in your little head.

I’d overheard what my parents said and believed every word of it. It bothered me so much I told my teacher one day about this monster. I couldn’t understand how anyone could allow this and pretend a monster didn’t have control of our lives. She tried to turn the situation into a teachable moment, even confessed she had voted for him. I don’t remember the exact words or logic she used but her explanation made me even madder. I liked her, but not that man, not after what my parents said.

They say that politician died in his sleep of some rare and undetected heart defect. No, he didn’t. He died around 10 am in the morning, right before recess.

By the time I was eleven I understood the power of what I could do. I tested it out, for the first time intentionally, wishing death on a horrible criminal I saw in the news. The next day the man’s trial had been canceled - he had passed. I don’t know who lied about it or why, but they ruled it a suicide.

I felt like a superhero. I went and bragged to mom about what I had done. Horrified, she gave me a long talk. It worked. Her words sank deep. From that moment on I had an adult understanding of death. I didn’t know that man deserved a trial.

It hadn’t occurred to me then that she should have reacted with horror and disbelief, not horror and a lecture. What rational parent would take an eleven-year-old at their word that they can kill people with bad thoughts? But she knew I was telling the truth. Now I know why.

A few days ago, after learning about my wife’s pregnancy, mom told me that my dad also had this same terrible power. He’d been a good man. He died after a car accident when I was seven, so I remember how much I loved him, but not much else. The drunk who’d hit him survived the crash, then died the next day from “unrelated causes.”

I’ve never killed anyone as an adult, not even by accident. At some point I even forgot it’s something that could happen. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m about to have a child.

My innocent baby girl, you’re so new you don’t even have a name yet.

My wife

I fear

I thought about ask

I contemplated

You deserve a chance at life. My curse is no fault of your own. With any luck, I won’t pass this scourge onto you.

I love you already.

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Dear Diary,

Her name is Willow.

They say the first six months are the hardest. They aren’t kidding, especially not in my case. New parents all fret and worry, but I can objectively say none so much as me.

My wife doesn’t get it. I’m a worry wart, leaping to help at every infantile little squeak, hogging our daughter with excessive concern. Like any infant, Willow’s favorite and most comfortable place is nestled in mama’s arms with her cheek on a boob. But that’s too far away from me.

I should tell my wife, but I can’t. You’d only understand if you had a child of your own. That magical, unconditional love. You wouldn’t let anything hurt that baby, not even the truth. I don’t want to color it all wrong by sharing the deadly secret. It’s not the baby’s fault.

I should have told her soon as I learned my ability might be hereditary. She doesn’t even know I have this curse. It was history, I’d put it aside, it shouldn’t have mattered anymore.

Too late, now. I didn’t think far enough ahead.

I don’t know if an infant can think thoughts bad enough or with the necessary focus to trigger the curse. Unsurprisingly, this isn’t something you can just look up on the internet. I tried anyway. Maybe I’m sick and tired, but the thought of keeling over and someone seeing my search history has me laughing.

I called my mom and asked her for advice. What had dad done? She just told me it wasn’t a problem, described how dad loved us so very much, and not to worry. Then she cried so much that she couldn’t get any more words out.

I asked her to come help us, and after a minute she collected herself enough to string a few words together and agree. She’ll take next week off work and visit for a few days.

New parents don’t get a lot of sleep.

I don’t get any sleep at all.

This morning I woke up on the kitchen floor with the baby in my arms.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

Willow doesn’t like being held by strangers. My wife doesn’t understand, insists it won’t hurt if the baby cries a little. She’s six months old now, super cute with big eyes that stare in curiosity at the whole wide world. Everyone wants to hold her, not just aunts and cousins, but dads and strangers too.

They all look at me weird when I snatch Willow from their arms as soon as she gets that angry, innocent looking, thunderous little down-curled lip.

It’s embarrassing enough when someone hands you a baby and it starts to cry. Its like you failed one of God's little tests. The decent thing to do is let the person coo at the infant for a little bit, make a show of it being alright, then let them smile sheepishly and hand the baby back to mama with no harm done.

I can’t risk all that rigamarole. Someone could die.

My wife thinks my antisocial behavior is a product of my being raised in foster care. I never knew my mother, and my dad died in a car accident when I was only seven.

The wife tells me I’m doing a good job as a dad. I’m the best husband a girl could dream of, insists no mother ever had it easier with their firstborn. But sometimes, she says, I go too far with the protective stuff.

I don’t have a good argument. Anything I’d say would be a lie. I can’t tell my wife the truth, not yet.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

Willow is old enough now that people want to bring their kids over to play.

Willow is not ready for that. I bought a purebred Rottweiler without consulting the wife. His name is Tiger.

The wife’s mad, to put it mildly. I made up a story about how I just love Tiger too much to get rid of him.

I can’t stand that animal – Tiger’s feral as a dog can get. Mean and vicious, even for a Rottweiler. He came out of the kennel that way – Tiger’s previous owner was confused and delighted when I offered him 50 bucks to take this spiteful dog off his hands. I’d overheard him shouting he’d sell the rotten beast to the first comer. Turns out he meant it.

The wife got mad at Tiger one time for barking aggressively at Willow and locked the pup in our bedroom. A few minutes later the damn dog had chewed through half our bedroom door. He made a way bigger hole than he needed to escape – he taught that door a lesson.

Bad dog.

But also, good dog. No one brings their kids to our house, not after they learn about Tiger.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

It happened.

My worst fear.

How did I possibly think I could do this without… an accident?

Jerome’s dead. An innocent little five-year-old boy. He was sweet as can be. Olive skin and brown eyes.

We look nothing alike, especially since I’m thirty years older than him and a white guy. But his gentle nature, his sweet hugs given so freely, the way his eyes lit up whenever I said: “Yes, Willow can play!”

He reminded me of myself at that age.

Jerome and I were kindred spirits. A little boy doesn’t parse it like an adult does, but I think he came over to see me just as much as he came to see Willow.

I should’ve seen how this kinship could become a problem. Willow had spent all day nagging us. She wanted to go outside on a ride with Jerome on his power wheels.

He always came over in this flashy red sports car, you see, one of those little ones that goes six miles an hour. I don’t care if he’s five – I told him this is why you’re so good at picking up pretty girls like Willow. I was only kinda joking. I fantasized how cool it would be down the road, Willow and Jerome all grown up and getting married. Their kids would have been cute, even my wife had to admit that.

Can’t marry a dead kid.

Jerome’s parents are inconsolable. My guilt overwhelms me to the point its crippling. Only with extreme willpower have I forced myself try to do anything to help them. They politely accept modest help where it makes sense, and refuse anything in excess, of course.

Astoundingly, they won’t stop thanking us for being part of Jerome’s sweet little life. They’ve gone on and on about how Willow enriched his short time on earth, and despite how few his years had been, it had been worth bringing him into their lives. Better to have five years with sweet little Jerome than none at all.

Jerome’s doctors found he had a rare undiagnosed heart condition. Someone had missed a normally detectable defect in the standard ultrasounds given to newborns. They claim he’d been lucky to make it to the age of five.

But I know the truth of how he died.

I just needed to relieve myself. I’d only walked out of the room for two minutes. I left Jerome alone with Willow when she was hot with jealousy for our attention.

Willow’s a good girl. She just doesn’t understand the power of her emotions.

The manly thing to do would be

I’m such an idiot for letting Willow have friends over. At least not until she’s older.

Years ago, I had an opportunity to buy a Pit Bull. I think his name was Tiger. Some guy at the park was shouting at Tiger, saying he’d sell the rotten beast to the first comer. I don’t know, maybe he hadn’t meant what he said. I’d thought really hard about getting that dog to prevent this.

I should have. Jerome was allergic to dogs, so this never would have happened.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

I love how quiet our neighborhood is. I got onto the housing authority board. Since there are no dogs here anyway, we decided to propose a ban on them – more as a joke, really. I voted in favor just for the fun of it. Plus, it makes our community quaint; something-something about getting in the press and tourism it might generate.

At least it might give some newsworthy competition to how all the bats are dropping dead. Not really a selling point. Apparently, some scientists came from half the world over to study the phenomenon, and aren’t sure what bats are supposed to eat. Maybe they’ll find a fossil to answer the question soon, but it’s like they spontaneously evolved without a food source.

Dying bats and a lack of dogs are not the only things weird about our town. Willow’s middle school is over two-thirds boys, and less than one-third girls. It’s a regular public school, so there’s no convincing reason for this. That’s just statistical anomalies at work, I guess. It had to happen somewhere, eventually, right? Why not here.

I think another reason our neighborhood is so quiet is its full of this strange population of suburb-loving, family-friendly, childless couples. I’m personally acquainted with so many neighbors who love kids in general, love our little family, and, in particular, love Willow.

You’d think they’d just go and have their own kids. I assume many of them can’t, and cozying up to us is their way of coping with fruitless parental instincts. They’re externalizing it, parenting vicariously. It’s a little weird, but I can’t deny how nice it is to have a bunch of friendly people my age helping out around the holidays, especially when they’re so good with Willow. Many of them I trust implicitly to be alone with her.

There’s not been another incident since Jerome. We have so many adult friends, and while she’s still polite, Willow mostly ignores them, so I don’t worry overmuch.

Willow is getting older. Maybe soon she’ll be mature enough to sit her down for the “talk”. I don’t know. Things seem safe right now. Maybe I’ll just wait for it to come up naturally.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

Willow doesn’t invite boys over. I’m a little worried about it, sure, but I can’t argue with the relief that brings. A parent can’t help but worry about their kid getting into trouble they’re not ready for – especially when lives are at stake.

I remember years ago when she first started going boy crazy and how much I’d fret about the consequences. Anytime I asked: “do you like him?” she’d smile all shy and shrink two sizes smaller. I learned to stop embarrassing her, and fortunately nothing ever came of it.

She doesn’t really invite girls over, either. At least her high school is more normal than her middle school was with a more even ratio of boys to girls.

A strange thing happened this afternoon. Willow came home with a disturbed look and said her history class was covering World War Two. This is many a father’s dream come true. Like a lot of other guys, I’m an enthusiastic WW2 know-it-all and love discussing and dissecting the topic.

She asked some interesting questions and I launched into a big story of “what ifs?” and just how lucky the Allies were contending only with little old Reinhard Heydrich and not his number two man, Kurt Daluge. Everyone knows Daluge would have done a better job fortifying Vladivostok against Allied invasion, and that the marshaling of North and South American forces for an invasion of German-controlled “Fortress Britain” was just a diversion meant to tie up the Nazi’s most elite units on the wrong side of Siberia.

When those Czech gardeners finally assassinated Heydrich touring around Westminster in his open-topped car, the Butcher of London was out of the way. But it was too late for Daluge’s obviously superior genius to stop the slow and steady roll-up the Allies performed in the East. Especially when the National Soviet Socialist Resurgence party flipped on the Nazis and besieged the 3^rd Army inside Leningrad (the Russians did most of the work beating the Nazis, many don’t know this).

Everyone jokes about how easily the Brits capitulated, so they never get credit for running that amazing network of resistance fighters in Europe. If they hadn’t assassinated all those Nazi scientists, I don’t think the Allies would have won the race to build the bomb, and though Deluge was the better man, the timing of Heydrich’s death worked out perfectly for the Allies too.

I think my big energetic lecture went a bit over Willow’s head. I might have scared her off the subject in the future, I dunno. Thinking I had gone overboard in my excitement, I stopped short of covering the war to retake Anchorage from Japan, and threw in the necessary sorrowful mention of the 200 million who died in the conflict.

She got this deer in the headlights look when I said that, like she’d made some terrible mistake. She asked if I knew some fellow named “Hitter” or “Hilter” or something. I asked if she meant “Himmler” but no, a different guy. I scratched my head, said don’t know any “Hitcher” or whoever, and with that said she ran off crying.

Guess we won’t discuss that topic anymore. I can’t help but be a man and an avid history buff. Years of pointless independent research had its moment in the sun. Oh well, it could have been worse. She could have asked me about the Punic Wars.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear Diary,

Raising a daughter alone is hard.

Being unmarried, it was a miracle I got approved by the adoption agency. I remember how much of a fight it was, how much I had to straighten out my life more than a regular person. And it was even more of a surprise that they offered me a little baby girl, and that of every child in the world, she, too, would have the terrible power I have.

I’d decided a long time ago that when Willow turned 18, I would tell her the truth about her adoption, that the mother I invented never existed and Willow’s real mom was probably out there somewhere wondering how her life turned out.

Willow turns 18 tomorrow.

So, imagine my surprise when I come home from work early, a shiny set of keys to a brand-new car jingling in my hand, and walk in on Willow doing… that.

She pulled something out of her body and rolled off the bed so fast she almost flew out the window. She had an explanation handy, but I’d seen too much to be deceived.

The camera setup… the chiming laptop… the discarded objects and delinquent clothing…

My sweet baby girl who I bathed and fed. The little daughter I read bedtime stories to every night. I shared in every germ and virus she deigned to bring home. I had such magnificent dreams for your future.

And there you were, abusing your perfect body in front of God knows how many old perverts. For money? Attention?

I want to be modern. I desperately want to rationalize this behavior somehow. But I can’t. She shouldn’t have done this. I supported her, gave her plenty of worthy opportunities, raised her to be well-behaved, dignified. Call me selfish, but what she did is just not right, it’s a betrayal of everything I worked so hard to provide her.

She’s underage, for crying out loud! Where did she sign up for this obscene gimmick? How could she do this to herself? How could she do it to me?

Small stuff in comparison, but I also saw a tattoo I never knew she had. You think you know your child’s life, but you really don’t.

All I can think of now is where did I screw up. Should I have tried harder to bring a female role model into Willow’s life? Should I have gotten more help from family? Was it that daycare I sent her to for a couple years?

What the hell was I thinking, trying to do this alone?

Or is this the fallout from our other problem?

Once it became clear to her she couldn’t deny what I saw, I left to give her some time to get decent. By the time she was dressed I still didn’t know what to say besides how disappointed I was. I said we’d have a talk later, then gave her the keys to her new car without ceremony or celebration. I think I forgot to mention it was supposed to be an early birthday present. I also forgot I’d cleared my schedule to go on her first practice drive.

I hope she still wants to go to college. But now I dread the thought of letting her out of my sight.

I guess it could be worse. She could have gotten pregnant, or an STD, or been doing drugs.

God, I hope she’s not doing drugs.

Baby girl. No matter what happens, no matter what you do or don’t do, I will always be here for you, I will always support you.

I love you, Willow.

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Dear daddy,

I never knew you kept this Diary. Somehow everything you wrote stayed intact while the world around us fell to ruins.

It makes me feel like I can reach you this one last time.

Almost.

Reading your diary made me realize something I think I’ve always known:

Everything is my fault.

You’re gone now, and no one knows about it.

Tiger was a mean dog, but it wasn’t his fault. It was just his nature. He did the job you asked him to, but I wouldn’t let him continue. I was too little to know he didn’t mean any harm with all his barking.

I wished he would go away, and he did.

I think I did this to grandma, too. I think when I was a baby and a wrinkly old lady I’ve never seen before picked me up… who knows what my brain did. Maybe I thought I saw a witch. Maybe tiny babies are born inherently afraid of evil witches snatching them.

I’m sorry about what I did to grandma. I didn’t know any better.

I didn’t do anything to Jerome, at least. I barely remember him; I was too little. Seeing how much you liked him breaks my heart. But I remember enough to confidently say didn’t kill Jerome, not even by accident. I think his heart really just gave out on its own.

Otherwise, why did you remember him?

Middle school was the worst time of my life, or so I thought at the time. Hormones and jealousy and mean girl – the hormones hit me hard. But at least I got to live through those years. So many girls I thought were “friends” did not.

No one remembers them now. No one but me. And all I remember is they stopped coming to class, but we were somehow still friends with their parents. All those parents who came over and loved us so much had no clue I’d stolen their kids from them. I wish they did. I deserve every bit of the hatred they never knew they should bear.

I tried to use my power for good just one time, just like you did when you were eleven. When I learned about Hitler at school I felt so awful. I learned about the holocaust and thought: this is my chance to make up for all the pain I’ve caused. I’ll just wish that bad man away.

Death and evil flourished in his absence. I only made it worse, like everything else I touch.

Mom caught me doing the cam girl thing just like you did. She must have seen it coming, or already known about it somehow. She didn’t go into shock like you did, instead launching into a big speech, and said some really awful things. It sounded like a deep pain she’d harbored for a long time, like she knew I was a demon from hell but she couldn’t think of a valid reason for it. Me doing my show was the first time she had something concrete to react to.

The things she said hurt so much there was nothing I could do to prevent what happened. She was gone, and I thought, this is it, my life is over. I’m not just killing the people dearest to me. I’m making it so they never existed.

I made one last attempt to carry on though. For you, dad. But I couldn’t stop hating myself. I guess I did the cam thing because my body was the only thing I had left that seemed objectively good. The occasional hater or troll would drop into my chat, but I didn’t have to worry, the screen of anonymity I think protected them and I didn’t have to worry about killing anyone by accident. For brief hours of the day I felt safe, like I put positive emotions out in the world for once, in my own little warped way.

But now I know the world is a miserable place. How could it allow something like me to exist? How would it give you such false hope in a good future for me, for us?

I hate this cruel existence, so, of course, now people everywhere think there’s always been tornadoes and mega volcanoes and meteors constantly falling from the sky. No one questions who built the bunkers historic people used to survive the thousand-year-long apocalypse. No one questions how God could have possibly wanted this for his children when he banished them from Eden.

I slipped and made the mistake of hating what you gave me.

And now you’re gone. I can’t pretend anymore. You’re gone, and no one remembers you, because my curse is even worse than yours was. My bad thoughts don’t just make people just die, it makes them disappear, both from reality and memory. It makes them never exist to begin with.

How could you ever teach me what’s right from wrong when you don’t know what I’ve done?

Atlas himself bore an easier burden. You loved me so much dad, I know. You tried your hardest to protect me from the world, and you tried to protect the world from me.

I’m sorry it didn’t work out the way you hoped it would. This all a big mistake, and there’s only one way to fix it.

You’re the best dad a girl could ever have. But I, deeply and sincerely, wish I had never been born.

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